“Being okay and being modest are two things that do not get you into Princeton. Have you met most of the students here?” I laughed and circled my left arm around to indicate our surroundings, wanting to refocus Porter on our conversation. “I’m sure there’s more to your story.”
Porter looked back at me with his previous intensity from the classroom, mixed with soulful confidence. “I also got a perfect score on the SAT.”
Chapter Ten
Present
4:48 p.m. (Quinn)
Call me immediately.News!
4:48 p.m. (Callie)
I’ve got news too, just need a minute.
4:49 p.m. (Quinn)
I can’t wait a minute, hurry!
“Quinn, I hit on a child. Or more like, almost hit a child. Or both.” I exhale my confession into the phone, having run from my driveway into the house, dropped my purse on the floor, and then my underpants, to pee in the powder room. All in under fifty-eight seconds in the irrepressible heat of the Central Valley in mid-July. Dr. Kwan was wrong. Sometimes I do run.
“Are you peeing?”
“You said I had to hurry!”
“Uh, gross.”
“Oh, please. Like you’ve never peed talking to me.”
“Okay, fair, but I put myself on mute,” Quinn scolds. I should have thought of that. “I’m hoping there’s more to your story than illegality and continued poor taste in men.”
There is. The guy I almost hit had the same last name as Porter. It’s not that Beaumont is a rare surname; I’ve known a handful, particularly on the East Coast. But Porter, and now Chap, are the only Black Beaumonts I’ve come across, and nearly running over Chap stirred wistful memories and deep pains of my youth I thought were long packed away.
I debate whether to bring up the duplicate surname coincidence to Quinn when I hear glassware clinking, people cheering, and a level of merriment in Quinn’s apartment that I haven’t heard in my own house in years. I think Quinn’s news has something to do with our present, and I have been spending far too much time the last several months mired in my past, so I let this afternoon’s encounter go.
“Hold on, hold on, I have to step out of the living room so I can hear you better,” she says.
Determining that my story is, in fact, more humiliating than interesting, I return to Quinn’s urgent news. “What’s up with you? What’s going on?”
“I didn’t actually think you’d call me back so fast,” Quinn says.
“Ah, so you’ve already talked to Stephanie?” Stephanie is Quinn’s best friend from childhood, and we have a stubborn competition for Quinn’s affections. Stephanie put herself through college and graduate school by working as a Ford model alongside Linda Evangelista and Christy Turlington. With her doctorate in East Asian studies and no school debt, she has spent her life working for the United Nations as a lead negotiator on behalf of developing countries that are part of the G-77. Stephanie speaks four languages, her husband is a revered French film director, and one of her children is on the US swim team, a favored backstroker in the next Summer Olympics. Over the course of thirty-four years of friendship, whenever I get a bit snippy and jealousof Stephanie, Quinn reminds me I’m funnier than she is, and for some reason that appeases me. No one likes a bore, no matter how beautiful and successful they are.
“Grow up; I didn’t call Stephanie first. She happens to be at my apartment right now because she’s been in New York for the week for some green climate conference.” That’s right. In addition to championing the rights of developing countries, she’s going to fix the climate crisis in her spare time.
“What am I missing on the East Coast that you can’t wait to rub in my face, other than everything?” I whine to Quinn, holding the phone between my shoulder and chin so I can wash my hands. I rub my index and middle fingers over my eyebrows to smooth them out. I need to pluck a few stubbles, but for the love of Tweezerman, when I lean in to the mirror, I can’t see a single one of them without my reading glasses.
“Your goddaughter’s engaged!” And then there’s that. Quinn chose me over Stephanie to be her only child’s godmother. So yes, when it most counted, I won the best-friend title.
“My Alice is engaged! I mean your Alice!” I quickly correct myself, though I know Quinn and I are not from the generation that quibbles over pronouns.
“Yes, our Alice! Can you believe it?” While I love John and Andrew ferociously, Alice holds a special place in my heart because shopping for boys rarely includes anything other than utilitarian accessories. Since the day Alice was born, anytime I’d find something girly, unnecessary, and not blue, black, or cement gray, I’d bypass Quinn’s permission, hand over my credit card, and send it straight to Alice with the understanding that her mother didn’t need to know everything. That’s godmother logic straight from the handbook.
“Tell me every last detail of how he asked her, where he did it, what the ring looks like.” I receive an alert that Lisa is texting me while I’m talking to Quinn, and I quickly tap outOn a call, come over.At an age when so much of the news we receive is bad, there is nothing Lisa andI love more than popping open something fizzy and celebrating each other’s good stuff.
“I promise I will tell you all about it, but Alice has her friends over to celebrate, Jack’s parents are on their way with more champagne, and Stephanie needs to leave for the airport in an hour.” I can’t believe Stephanie got to hug Alice before I did, but it’s okay; I assuage my jealousy. As godmother, I’m further up the toasting pecking order for the wedding weekend.
“More to come, but mark your calendar. Alice and Jack have already decided they want to get married on New Year’s Eve in the city.”
